Andrea and brother, Fred Jr. at Santa Cruz Beach and Boardwalk circa 1981.
My Story
Before I knew what food could do, I felt it.
My paternal grandfather, Fred Sr., was a retired Army cook. A stern, proud man who did things properly — baked ham, roasted turkey, potatoes done right. His wife, Candy, is Korean. And at every single family gathering, Fred Sr. would lay out his careful American spread and Candy would set out hers alongside it: kimchi, Korean barbecue, banchan that made the whole room smell alive. Every time, without fail, the family would walk right past Fred Sr.’s food and descend on Candy’s like it was the last meal on earth. His dishes sat. Hers disappeared.
Fred Sr. would get a little perturbed. But here’s the thing — he’d eat the Korean food too.
I was a small child during all of this, hunched over my Easy-Bake oven at home, thoroughly convinced I was doing something important. But it was Candy’s table that first told my brain what food could actually be. The kimchi, sharp and spicy and alive. The barbecue, sweet and smoky and deeply savory. Flavor explosions I couldn’t get enough of and never forgot. That was the very beginning — before everything else — the moment food first felt electric to me. My palate woke up and never really went back to sleep.
I grew up along the Monterey Bay coast of California, where food was tied to place in a different way. Abalone pulled fresh from the water on jade-hunting trips in Big Sur. The Easy-Bake oven giving way to real kitchens, real ingredients, real curiosity. And then there was my grandmother.
We called her Blue Mom.
Blue Mom was a cook her whole life — and she was very particular about that word. Not a chef. A cook. She had an extraordinary instinct for feeding people. After Thanksgiving, she’d collect the turkey carcasses from family members nobody else wanted. She’d spend days turning them into fresh stocks and soups, and then she’d call the family and tell them to stop by and pick up what she’d made. That was just what she did. Quietly, generously, without ceremony.
When I was in my early twenties — newly divorced, newly back home in Pennsylvania — I moved in with my mother. Blue Mom lived right up the block. She started inviting me over to cook with her. To teach me things. And I, being young and not yet wise enough to understand what was being offered, kept canceling.
One afternoon she wanted to show me how to make chicken rivel soup. I canceled that too.
She died not long after.
I have carried the weight of that canceled afternoon for a long time. I still do. I have never made chicken rivel soup. Not once, in all my years of cooking. It still hurts too much. But someday I will make it — and when I do, I’ll call the family and tell them to stop by and pick up their quart. Just like she always did.
How I Got Here
A year or so after she passed, I was still living at home with my mother when a commercial came on for a culinary school. I called out from the other room — half joking, half not — “Did you know you could go to school to learn how to cook?” My mother dried her hands, leaned out of the kitchen and said, “Blue always wanted to visit the CIA up in New York. She never made it.”
I looked into it. My mother and I made the trip to Hyde Park to tour the campus. I remember sitting in the Danny Kaye Theater during that visit and feeling something shift inside me. I welled up. Quietly, unexpectedly, completely. Something in my soul just knew — this is where I belong. Whatever it costs, whatever it takes, I am going to figure this out. The decision was already made before I stood up from that seat.
I enrolled at the Culinary Institute of America shortly after. I graduated three times. I went on to work in Michelin-starred kitchens, lead as an Executive Chef, and eventually find my way into private chef work — which is where I’ve stayed, and where I believe I do my best work.
She’s the whole reason for this life’s season(ing).
How I Cook
My cooking is seasonal and ingredient-driven. I don’t chase trends. I don’t impose a food philosophy on the people I cook for — my job is to make your table feel like yours, not mine. I follow the lead of what’s good right now, what you love, and what will genuinely nourish you.
I think about food the way Michael Pollan does: eat food, not too much, mostly plants. Simple in principle. Endlessly interesting in practice.
I care deeply about where food comes from — the systems behind it, the farming practices, the policies that shape what ends up on your plate. I believe in transparency. I believe consumers deserve to know what they’re eating. These aren’t things I’ll lecture you about over dinner, but they quietly inform every sourcing decision I make on your behalf.
“A grapefruit is a lemon that had a chance and took advantage of it.” — Oscar Wilde (and also, honestly, my cooking philosophy)
Food is serious. It is also joyful. It sustains life and it marks the moments in life worth remembering. I never forget either of those things.
Who I Work With
I work best with clients who see me as a person first and a chef second. That mutual respect is the foundation of everything. I’m not a short-order cook, an on-call caterer, or a multi-tasking entertainer. I’m a chef — with 25 years of experience, a classical foundation, and a genuine passion for the craft — and I bring all of that to every engagement.
My ideal client values quality over convenience, trusts my judgment on sourcing and ingredients, and doesn’t need to watch the clock on what excellent food costs. If that sounds like you, I’d love to cook for you.